


Meet and Greet

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [45]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Death, Verdant and Snowfallen AU, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 16:33:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19772125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern





	Meet and Greet

The world was a shivering, waverly mess of lines.

Colors, fabrics, to be more exact, threads he could just feel, almost, almost even touch at times, but the shadows escaped Maxwell's lackluster attempts with ease, sand grains slipping from his hands. Their laughter was foreign, odd, and yet still it was something he was all too familiar with.

Spring, and the underlining woken seasons, had more of that color to them. Or, perhaps he was just more sensitive to them.

A Verdant had to be connected to the world, the very earth itself, after all. Laughable, to think of this rotten dirt as earthen, but the Constant had a way with growth, patterns, and eventual change.

An unfortunate tik of his; change was a part of spring, of the growing seasons, and yet he took to it like oil to water. The others were much more boisterous about their merry making, at the very least.

The redhead crowed her victories, voice loud and resounding and a glorious cry; her very energy was enough to almost make Maxwell sick to his stomach. The aura off of her, the colors, it was _nauseating_.

Not to mention what followed her about; young and old monstrous things, her vehicles and worshippers, her meat and supper and livestock and allies. Wigfrid took to her kingdom with such a force to reel him back, in its coatings of spilled fresh blood, of slaughter and wounding defense and the sharp, harsh nature cruel cries of birth. She's held her newborn citizens in bloody hands, crowed over defeated giants she's raised from younglings, and made her harvests all the more bountiful with each and every sacrifice to her goddess divinity.

It disgusted him that, out of all of them in these growing months, the beasts chose to follow their butchering deity over anyone else. Then again, none of the others were the sort to get intrigued by the abominations of biology.

The closest he had to take a guess would be the painter, but it was only the young things that flocked the lanky god. They trilled and whistled and bleated up at him, round innocent eyes caught up upon his work, the landscapes and towering creations painted in spirals and shards, enough at times to spill itself upon the true breathing world.

Maxwell watched at the sidelines, as the others did the same, and there was no shame in eavesdropping upon another's work when said other did it to appease the masses. Wes made the paints do things they'd never do for another, and the life they hummed with strung up and danced their signs as unto their very creator; the children of beasts found this a beauty, even with such simple, animal minds. 

The god had little to no following, but what did rise never fell. Quieter than the butcher goddess’s preachers, but sunken, hidden away, weeds to the cracked stone, pleading for a place in the painters bleeding landscapes.

Wes kept to them well, all considering. The Constant favored no one, never, and yet Maxwell bared witness to too much shadow chuckling to know the god was far too much into its luck. Perhaps giving the land what it wanted, needed, was enough to keep the god on his feet; Wes paved the very dirt grounds with his powders and splashes, and they responded beautifully.

Maxwell found no way to fault him in that. 

The beasts of these lands followed little else than the two. Quite disrespectful, at times, but he should assume it for the better.

The butcher goddess kept the lines pure, the balance complete and growing and forever, and the painter god entertained and signed the very ground into motion, gave land to those who would walk upon it in simple mortal lifespans. The Constant, in all its faults that he so believed, blessed the two for that.

As if this world only consisted of animal sweat and molded dirt. The clay he could understand, but this was more than a mixture of blood and colored paints. The trees attested to that, along with their founding guardian figure.

The woodsman kept to himself, kept to his forests, kept to them tight, and it was rare enough to catch sight of him as it was, even more so to speak and greet.

Maxwell was not one for such frivolous, useless wastes of time and energy, but it seemed the same to Woodie.

The trees talked, slow and apathetic and, at times, lacking, but they gossiped as like everything else with beating life. Easy enough to overhear the death of birdly creatures deep in the forests, the full moon boistering an overbearing spirit of a god undone, and Maxwell considered himself lucky.

Out of all of them, that was a curse he'd rather not shoulder. Woodie kept to his trees, bit and tore apart the air beasts that drew too close, and the trees bore through the faint bits of messages and lone thoughts time to time, most times before autumn, often between the noons of summer. The avian blood deep in those forests fed the earth, and the guardian beastly god walked the paths and did his work well.

The wet, fresh airs of spring were busy times, heavy humidity dragging Maxwells own costume and parade, and his antlers dripped with dew and stained down his back as he wandered his own forests, listening to the here and there words of a wood god sent far, far from this place.

It was of loneliness, at most times, sometimes the odd scraped poem, of sunlight and pinecones and the ever accompanying loveliness of Lucy, the snap of hard teeth to tree flesh, and Maxwell made sure to answer back in formal kind, whisper thin, letting none of his own business speak through.

The trees passed the messages, and any face meeting was brief, short, and the wooden god drew deep in his towering growth of dark forests and found good company for himself there. The only worship Woodie needed was in the softness of someone's planting, trees urged to growth, the sharpness of sap, tree blood and fallen rotted death, and that was enough.

The gods never needed much, though some called for more than they gave.

The rugged, lumpy tumorous growths were loud enough as they were. Maxwell found the organic golem not much, but the rooted networks underneath his very feet were compensation enough.

The rooten deity had less attraction to company than the woodsman, but the oddly named WX78 was much, much louder in comparison. Any creature found on their land with a mouthful of twigs and leaves was ensnared and squeezed and eaten away with uproarious, almost hated fervor. The very dirt drank in heated blood, and the golem doused themself as they saw fit.

At times a very godlike thing to do, almost becoming in fact. Maxwell would have congratulated them, if he didn't fear for his own safety. Eaten alive by the withering mouths of flora roots and lollygagging worms was not a befitting death for a ruling Verdant.

The golem WX78 lived and breathed the very dirt, and their arms stretched long and wide, white thin roots stretching and coiling and eating through the flesh of the Constant as consistent as any shadow. A good enough deity as any.

They did contest, at times. The ground would wither then, with rooted tendrils and the golems warlike hatred cries, and in answer were the bellows of heat and humidity and the curling of rot.

The goddess at odds was almost akin to golem like, dirt in her fingernails and hands caked with clay, shaping and building and forever wiping sweat from the brow, and Maxwell hid himself away when things went to odds in the hotter months.

The trees cooed their gossip and giggles then, clung deep to their own plastering of dirt, and they all watched as the variables grew out of hand.

But, it was no golem deity that stood ahead at the end of the day; no, those roots were snipped and weeds pulled by persistent, toughened hands, and WX78 always drew away from the powers of a gardening goddess.

Winona knew what she was doing, in the way of harsh, blistered hands and sweat drunk earth, patted down and flattened and then corrected for the next advance. The woman was a force, of nature no doubt, and no beast followed her in the willingness that was shown to the others.

Maxwell recognized the tools the goddess saw around her, and the colors of her world were dulled in comparison. She saw uniform, orderly layers, fields, to be harvested and replanted in quick, short bouts, but her very nature discarded her rulings.

The rot that fed her gardens ate through like rust all the same, and the plumes of fungal growth followed like a plague, a forewarning; all greatness decays, eats through metal rinds to the barest of essentials, and Winona's stubbornness was what kept her from seeing the fall of civilization she reenacted each and every time.

It was no lose to anyone; the tools of trade kept her busy, kept her toughened hands helping those in need, and those worshippers died all the same, to their age and decay and civil strife. Their goddess had no time for lazy workhands, and moved on to the next tool for her use.

Maxwell, at times, liked to think of it similar to himself. But, perhaps he likes the idea far too much; there were never enough worshippers who thought of him in a good light, or even, at the worst of luck, realized he was even there to begin with.

What ill luck, for his position. Once upon a time, he had been King, supreme over the Constant, and he had drawn all focus, attention.

But now he was discarded, and the new Queen held that power in her hands, listened to the shadows whispers and created all of something from the utterly of nothing.

It sent such a hard pitch of jealousy down his throat that Maxwell could almost ignore all of the colors and auras that clammered for his attention. A godsend, at times, though the bitter seeds in him drew dry and curdled even with that nourishment. His hands work were just not enough as it was, not anymore, and thus the other gods and goddesses and deities of the Constant gave what was due in exchange for recognition.

The something from nothing had been his, and now no longer. Creation myth escaped him, was an abstract emptiness in his mind where once he was so sure of himself, and it left him bitter and sour at his powerlessness. Only the emptiness of old blind eyes and the dusty expanse of changing times.

It so very tired him, even with the trees whispered sent messages and poetry. The thought must count, to someone, but Maxwell was bitter enough as it was and his domain, as such, was left entirely to him to use as he saw fit.

What he saw fit, however, was at odds. The Constant needed him as much as the next Verdant deity, but it gave him less favor nowadays. If he didn't know better, he'd think this damn place nursed a grudge.

Still, coming autumn did make it easier. The lack of flooding rains and baking heat waves was met with only the barest of beginning hibernation, and the others activities slowed. Their colors quieted, not faded as of yet, and the world gave him more space to breath.

More things passed away, at this season, though winter was the one who held every beasts life in a loose cusp, ready to drop every poor bastard down into the dark of death, but Maxwell was barred to that representation. He'd not survive himself, if he kept awake, though the very thought was tempting.

If he supposed he ever had the chance, he'd take it. The winters death bringing may just allow him those few extra worshippers, an understanding of what was his doing, but unfortunately that was for someone else. The Snowfallen, the silent side of the coin, and Maxwell grit his teeth and bore the thought of these almost rivals.

They had their seasons, as the Verdant had their own, and he had no say in the matter. Still, it irked him nonetheless, and it wasn't uncommon to push luck at the beginnings of autumn. Early spring always had hints of frostbite, as it was, so there was no rule breaking or danger; some of the other deities alongside him met with counterparts, _friends_ as they'd call them, and there was no repercussions.

As if that was what he wanted. The Snowfallen can keep to themselves, in all their haughty nonsense, and he'd stick to his own sidelines. 

The knowledge of _knowing_ each and every one was something he didn't dwell upon. The blood of kin did not cross the coins two sides, and neither did the barest of attempted friendships. Maxwell ignored their attempts when they were given, and hid away when the air got too cold, frostbitten and icy, just like every other Verdant.

His business was his own, and the Snowfallen better respect that. If not, then he was sure a Verdant like himself would come out on top, even in the winter months. His domain was likened to theirs, so it would be left up to prowess, and Maxwell was assured in his own works.

The shadows did not listen well to him anymore, but shivery thin copies still split from his age worn shadow and gave him their loyalty, so if all went under for him than at least he had this trick up his sleeve. A Snowfallen may attempt to drive him off, but they'd not expect the dark clones of himself to backstab them without thought or mercy.

It was something he kept to himself, and only the very Constants breath and the encompassing Queen knew of the trick. He'd expect neither to interfere.

So the coming winter was met less with tense preparedness, as it was with his fellow Verdants, and more with an eagerness he'd not admit. The death of summer was in preparation for the last harvest, and the others were at work for their worshippers sakes.

After all, many of them won't make it through winter. New faces may be born, but little else.

The butcher goddess Wigfrid was sure to have her hands full, and the painter god Wes was busy as ever, offering insight to new families for their upcoming familial grounds. The others paid their dues in passing, less interactive and more threatening, but their presence spurred on more energy to the air. Beast and man alike found themselves putting aside differences to attend to the merry making and combined efforts of the divine Verdants.

It was only obligation that had Maxwell drift about the massive campsite, the loud cacophony of voices and sounds and boisterous airs almost enough to blind him had he not been already.

Still, the colors gave form, and he kept to the outskirts. No telling what mess that chaos would eventually create, or even bring.

But his presence was not for naught; little attention he may have, but death was in the party nonetheless. Wigfrid kept her dues close, her attentions to victory and honor and bloodshed, so it was farther away from her tents that Maxwell found himself drawn to.

There would be no graveyard, but old things came to their deities celebrations all the same. There was no bloody feuds to be had, to not anger the Verdants celebrating, so no monstrous hound was cut down by mans threatening spear, no spider or frog or belligerent bull, only those choice picked by Wigfrids hand for the table, yet the tense tides were warning enough to be wary.

The colors here were stark, the threads stretched thin and taunt and ready to snap, and even though he was unknown and it was easy to pass through crowds without even an eye to land upon him Maxwell found the ignorant beings pulling away all the same. His very presence was a subconscious one, and their shivery little flames of life pulled back from his damper with a quick instinctive need to continue breathing.

It was only the old, faded ones who gave no instinctive struggle. Only a raise of the head and wheezed old breathing fading to silence as he sent them on their way.

Giving the Constant back what he himself had once created was at the very least calming. The old Vargs of these packs came here to die, and he gave them what they wished for, alongside worn century old spider queens and warty fat frogs, elder beefalo and pigmen and, in the rarest of cases, the few simple rabbits and rabbitmen kin.

And their living ground, the Constants shadow breath, ate them away and breathed the energy in all the same. Monstrous abominations had more connection to this plane more than any other, and snipping the tie to life was a part of his works.

Still, Maxwell remember the creation of them, the shaping of dust and clay and imagination, and he'd not admit the proper sorrow he had on seeing them go. The hounds had always been his favorites.

The men of these lands were less in his favor. Their lives were short, sharp, and obnoxious. Maxwell found that work less likely to be found here, however, and at least it wasn't as much of a mess. The death of old men and woman here was always met with mourning, dragged out far too long, and he sneered down at the oblivious, weeping relatives as the Constants shadows slurped the decaying flames of life from his hands. The worth of life to them was a mess, and he found it below his interest. What was the use of such pitiful creatures, besides their faith?

But he had none of their attention, very rarely at any rate, and made to leave. There was more death in this celebration than he was used to, packed in tight, and the Constant needed to be continually fed, it's cycle never near to completion.

Before he could pass from the tent to the obnoxiously high colors of laughter and cheer, a different thread of attention called for him.

Or, more like giggled and cooed.

A child, of course, a young one, and Wigfrids influence still hung about it like a cloud. Birth was not in his domain, and creation was much different from the bloody screaming of nature's cruelty. Creation was dry and steady and much more befitting for himself, Maxwell believed, and not a disgusted sickly mess of blood and vomit.

Still, the little waving hands, only strings of color and brand new threading, the fabric fresh and clean and pure, drew him close enough to squint down at.

Perhaps it was the butcher goddesses influence, her power that kept this little things eyes open for awhile longer, because the babe reached out to him and saw him as clear as day.

It reminded him of something, once. From a long time back, before much of this, and he'd not admit the flash of memory that it brought him, of the Snowfallen before she had ever been tied to the snow and ice of winter, before even, perhaps, the Constant itself.

Maxwell had death as his major domain, so new life was less likely to cross his path, but as the relatives of the recently departed mourned their loss their new little addition to the family occupied itself with reaching for his antlers and patting a deity it would never see again until it's dying breath.

And that would only come if it was stolen away by either pestilence or age or some other such natural death. Any other was in the domain of some other Verdant, or even possibly a Snowfallen if it came down to seasons, and Maxwell would have no other meeting with it again.

To say he missed interaction was an understatement. The baby cooed, slobbered as babies do, and grabbed for his nose, innocent eyes enamored with the tall, thin antlered deity crouched down before it. For all that it was worth, Maxwell supposed this could be a reward of sorts.

The Constant wasn't a cruel being, and the Queen not a cruel mistress. There was a reason these mass celebrations of seasons end were even allowed, the gathering of Verdants and their mortal worshippers in one mass of a place, after all.

To most of the others, their work was their reward. Maxwell found his in different places.

There was low strung babble from the mourning, and the noxious aura of color and life began to move once more. Someone came around to take the child in hand, and Maxwell straightened up to watch it become distracted by its family before excusing himself.

No one saw him leave, but they never saw him enter anyway. Their celebrating was marred with death, but he'd not return for awhile yet; none of the living family had their end times arriving anytime soon.

Leaving into the mass of crazed colors and packed animal and man alike festivities was nauseating, disrupting, and Maxwell easily slid through the crowd as they subconsciously avoided him, getting himself to the outskirts and away. The beginnings of what had to be a headache were forming now, deep in the back of his blind eyes and aching through his jaw, and it was with a hint of relief to notice the setting sun. Noon would quiet them all down a bit, break up into the feast Wigfrid and Winona had set their work into, and then it would be silenced at nightfall.

The Queens presence would invade the land then, and no one wanted to disrupt that. In the morning there would be the hasty taking down of tents, gathering of folks and packs and groups, and each of them would leave this wide clearing for their homes.

Winter was to come, and this was the last night for them to be free from the deathly cold stress that would come with it. Their Verdant faiths would wither, die, until next spring.

Like many other previous early autumns, Maxwell was not looking forward to it. These festivities dragged on and on, and he'd not rest until the first snowfall, unlike a few of the others. Not all Verdants stayed awake long enough to chance upon the snowflakes.

Speaking of, the woodsman's thread of light was glowing nearby. Beside him was the sharper, brighter tang of his companion, and Maxwell shook himself out of his thoughts before politely making his way over.

He'd have avoided it, but Lucy had seen him. She was arguably the most stubborn, senseless deity he's seen, but picking a fight with an axe wasn't very becoming.

“And here I thought you'd be asleep by now.”

_“what a way of a greeting! be polite; it's stressing to be here!”_

“Ah, don't get mad Lucy. He's just saying hi.” 

The woodsman was eyeing him, he could feel the darker gaze, but Woodie sensed things in the way of his kingdom. The slow, steady thought of trees and their willful silence, not quite at odds but much slower minded at times.

“An’ I'd be sleepin’ if I could've. Can't escape duties, now can I?”

“I would hope not. The trees are vagrants when they are not held accountable.”

Woodie was silent for a moment, and Maxwell didn't tower over him as much as he'd wish but at least he was assured that the man still had to look up at him. It kept a certain feeling of power about him, though the fact that some of the celebrating crowd only saw the woodsman and not him still left a bitter stinging reminder.

And then the man laughed, a deep, slow chortle, and Maxwell was unprepared for the bone crushing hug swung up around him, an “oof” of a huff escaping him as he was dragged down a moment. The man pat him on the back before releasing him, Lucy's quiet tittering laughter filling out as well.

“You're not doing a good job either if they've been giving you trouble. How you doing, you old hoser? Haven't heard from ya in awhile.”

Maxwell straightened himself up, old ingrained habit making him dust off his clothing, leaves and fiber against his skin as he realigned himself, and his abstract glower wasn't enough to quiet Woodies glowing strong flame of colors.

“Like I said, vagrants. One takes offense and then the rest don't see fit to send any missives to anyone. I almost was late to this because of a particular treeguard…”

He trailed off, turning his head a moment to catch sight the sudden change in colors and auras, but Woodie was just as distracted.

“Wes! Good to see ya!”

_“it's been a bit, hasn't it, I hope you are doing well!”_

The painter was moving, almost dancing about, the threads of the world twisting and turning and changing colors and shapes in the elegant way of Wes's abstract sense, and Maxwell almost felt sorry for himself in the fact that he couldn't bare witness to it in the most barest of forms. His blindness was perhaps a curse unto itself, but he at least was assured in knowing he was the only one to see others in their flaming auras as they truly were.

Wes's chameleon changes were a mark of who he was, but they didn't convey words. While Woodie may see and understand him, a bit slower than others, Maxwell had no such luck.

_“oh it really is, isn't it? i wish Woodie would take me to these festivals more often.”_

“Lucy, ya know I would if I could.”

Wes darted about, swinging his arms and shaping his hands no doubt, and Maxwell was just about to slip away, uninterested in this rather lovely conversation he was being barred from, and no he wasn't irritated, not at all, even if his face said otherwise, but then the painter was up in his face.

The flattering colors shifted, changed and waved like sand, flames sparking and vying for attention, and Maxwell leaned back, voice a hiss in his throat.

“I may be blind but I still appreciate personal space, Wes. Back off!”

The painter god did as he was asked, colors flowing to something more somber, apologetic perhaps, and the woodsman's energy was that slow earthly green flame as was normal, a comparison to the shades Wes was currently flinging up in auras about himself. 

And an anchor, of sorts. The brightness of ignorant mortals were brief and sharp compared to the steady beat of the divine, and Maxwell edged closer to Woodie for the brief calm and relief that surrounded him.

Wes was speaking, with his hands no doubt, but he was slowing himself, just barely, and the headache forming behind Maxwell's eyes eased just a bit at the consideration.

“Much better.”

It wasn't polite, to visibly put Woodie in between himself and Wes, but it saved his eyes the pressure of all that sight. 

What luck was for him; his blindness was a curse, and so was the view of true color and life. There was no winning for him, was there?

He could hear the quiet mumbling of what was Lucy's griping, but Woodie let him be, turned his tree slowed attention to make conversation with the ever vigilant, talkative Wes.

But the collective barrier was good enough, for now. A reprieve from his work, and the inconsiderate blaring colors of his fellow Verdants. Perhaps that was why he kept tabs with Woodie; the man's life force was slow enough and not demanding upon him, and neither was his personality. 

But, Maxwell would still much rather speak his words between trees; this _social_ interaction was not very entertaining. He was not going to get anything out of it at the end of the day, besides a splitting headache and pinning shadows trying to sneak a bit more foreign life from his hands into their own gullets.

His peace was broken all too soon, and Maxwell very briefly tapped Woodies shoulder to get his attention.

“Sorry for the interruption, pal, but the day is not over. I am needed elsewhere.” Maxwell lifted his head, overbearing antlers all too heavy, and looked pointedly at Wes's shifting energy threads. “Shouldn't someone be needing you at this point? Unlike the two of us, you're a rather popular figurehead; I'd expect your hands to be full all day.”

_“don’t be rude! he’s only having a bit of conversation with us, unlike you, so leave him be! i’d say this is a reprieve for everyone involved, but you are much too on edge.”_

Woodie attempted to shush her for a moment, her bright energy turning in his hands, but Maxwell instead grinned a sharp grin at her, voice not at all kind.

“Unfortunately, my work doesn’t take breaks. You lot have fun wasting time; I have more important things to do.”

That sent Wes’s colorful threads all about, trying to communicate with him of course, the painter seemed to forget what blindness actually did to a person, but Maxwell waved him away, turning and pushing back into the festivals ever too loud ambience.

He wasn’t lying, but hearing Lucy’s shrill squawks of indignation and the woodsman trying to calm her down was at least a bit satisfying. Perhaps they’ll now be spurred into doing something with themselves besides make small talk. If he let them alone with it, it would get awkward all too quickly, especially since the painter always had someone or other trying to get his attention; the begging of the beasts didn’t far outweigh the complaining of man and family. At least each Verdant wasn’t nearly so clingy.

Perhaps he should be glad that he had no followers here. The trouble it would be worth, to have complaints and wishes and prayers launched at him so frequently and then blamed for every little mistake out of his control; Maxwell grumbled to himself at the thought. He’d still rather be seen, in the end.

Sliding through the crowd, unhampered and uninterrupted as each mortal creature before him easily moved out of his way without even realizing their own actions, Maxwell lazily looked about at the shivery threads of the Constants fabric universe, each string colorful and flaring and breathing with all too much life. The faint drawing influence was calling him further into the mess of the festival, men and beast side stepping out of his way and calling for their friends and family in drunken, life heavy tones. 

A moment of peace did find him, a space of time in a corner near a row of tents, void of rushing about bodies, the shouting cheers going above and around him in the open, and Maxwell slowed to a stop, to breath deep. The air tasted of sweat and animal odors, fur and musk and dung, food and hot breathe and the jeering laughter of children darting around, and it left him with a disgusted feeling.

The Constant had never been cruel, but it wasn’t a kind place. Such sights as this, this combination of enemies for this one night in cheer and celebration over the Verdants “blessings”, wasn’t becoming whatsoever. If Maxwell had still been King, he’d never allow such things.

But perhaps that was his bitter old self speaking. In all honesty, it was almost warming, to look about and see people and animals, some of his own make, get along so well. Across from him was a set of benches and decorated wooden pillars, thronged with the Queens blessed flowers, and underneath was a grouping of children as they listened to the stages entertainer.

Flowers, and birds, and the magic scarf trick he assumed, and it all caused a round of applause and childish laughter, sparks of bright, happy colors and humming fabric lines.

Maxwell almost let himself be amused at the sight, and then forced that down instead to frown deeply at it all. The Constant and its Queen shouldn’t allow for such gullible frivolities.

He wouldn’t admit this to anyone, but it left him feeling mocked.

Turning away, shaking his head and almost snarling as he pushed those colorful brief flashes away, Maxwell raised his hands and searched for the right threads.

They called, as they were wont to do, thin and feeble and ready to snap, to be snipped, and their fading pale color was almost saddening. So few got to have his distraction, to allow those extra few seconds, minutes even, but Maxwell made sure to not avoid his duties for long.

If he did, the Queen might just decide another Verdant needed to be made to take his place. If that happened…

Well, he’d be blinder than he was now, that was for sure.

Taking the threads in hand, easing their strain as the mortal coil in them shivered, Maxwell followed them along to another tent, this one bigger and more extravagant. Those surrounding it let him through without even seeing him, and he ducked his head to allow his antlers room into the hot, stuffy chamber.

These threads led him forward, but Maxwell found himself hesitating a moment as flashes of sparked, strong blood energy caught his sights.

The butcher goddess raised her head to look at him, arms crossed and standing beside the makeshift bed, and he made an attempt to meet her eyes, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint exactly where they were. Silence, besides the mortal human babbling and whispers, and one tried to gain her attention for a moment before her silence quelled its curiosity and it quieted.

And then her energy shifted, the hostility fading ever so slightly, and her gaze rove elsewhere, to settle upon the dying threads owner.

“‘Tis their sixtieth seasön, Hel serpent.” Wigfrid’s voice quieted the rabble of mortal sound, and the silence was tense, quiet, as heads roved and eyes burned with the need to find the other Verdant.

Stepping forward with ease, already knowing he was unseen, Maxwell leaned over the coming deceased and squinted down upon the mortal human.

“I suppose this one did something special, to have a goddess stand by its deathbed?”

She snorted, the distrust and dislike thick in her voice as she eyed him, but there were rules in place and she had no right to this death.

A rivalry of sorts, some would call it. Maxwell could reckon that enough myths and stories were born in her kingdom about himself, and none would be flattering. But it wasn’t dislike he had for her; in all honesty, he found the butcher goddess a bit lacking in some areas, but a goddess was what she was, and she did it well. Her domains were strong, fed well, and he had no say in the matters she took to anyway. 

The deaths of valor and bloodshed and childbirth were her divine rights, to take upon the threads of those mortal deceased and to guide them wherever she saw fit. Maxwell has never seen her feed her worshippers flames to the shadows, has never seen her do anything but take and leave with the colors cradled in her hands, but if it didn’t anger the Constant or its Queen then he did not have a quarrel with her actions. What she did with the faith in her was hers, and hers alone.

But, some deaths she could not reach. This peaceful old timelapse was in his kingdoms lines, and he would do as he saw fit.

As he carefully drew the threads close, eased them away from the strain of energy life and dulled into quiet fire in his hands, gently snipping the connections and loosening the trails to the mortal body, the goddess opposite of him watched with steadily softening eyes.

“Yes. May they have eternal happiness in Valhalla.”

Maxwell had long ago decided to not tell her that the Constant had no such thing.

Her followers were keeping a wide space around where he was, no doubt realizing she was watching him and keeping an eye out for where she looked, and the lights here were somber, quiet, and the slightest bit hostile.

Maxwell straightened up with the cut strings in his hands, the mortal fabric now just colors, clouds of flame, and it only took a half second before a slithering shadow found its way up his leg and coiling itself up around his arm, to quickly suck up the offering in bold, slithery movements.

Out of all the colors, shadows were the most clear cut. It’s eyes blinked at him, before landing upon the bristling goddess across from it, and almost looked to smile before finishing and darting away.

“It is done. Now, I’d rather not have a spear through my back as I leave.”

“I’d nöt even dream öf döing sö.” Wigfrid said this darkly to him, body tense, shoulders set, and her followers eased away even more, to attempt to get behind her. They could not see him, and once he’d have thought them to fear him, but in all reality it was their own goddess they feared so terribly. “Yöu öffend me, in frönt öf my öwn föllöwers?”

“What they do not hear should not hurt them.” Maxwell backed off, his accompanying shadows slithering about his feet, between the legs of mortal standing and sweeping around in slow hushes. They avoided the rival goddess but watched her all the same, empty and clear and all too knowing of what their presence could cause. “I will be taking my leave.”

With that he swept out of the tent, away from that mixed mush of a mess that was mortality and life, the shadows seeping away, fading, leaving him as the sole core once again.

They aggravated the others, somehow with just their very aura, and if a situation wasn't already delicate enough the shadows just made sure to break the glass the slightest bit more. The colors of them were clear in comparison, and they saw him as clear as day, but such sight was just not the same.

Shadows did not talk. They did not converse, they did not debate or offer company or argue or cause any such a stir as interaction with the Verdants could. The lack of such things made Maxwells duties all the more exhaustive.

Light followed him out the tent a moment later, sharp and bright and shifting, in reds and greens and flashing holy gold, and Wigfrid whistled, quietly, the call of some sort of bird on her lips before joining him.

Skirting the tent, away from mortal flames, the goddess easily shrugging off their attentions and waving them away, Maxwell could feel the shiver up his spine, something that made him grow tense, alert, skittish.

The aura of a butcher goddess was not one to be taken lightly, and hers was always want to sing of bloodshed.

But, she was more mellowed out than antsy. Her deity flame was not of hellfire, was more of growth, and Maxwell could understand that in the most basic of senses.

He was in no immediate danger.

“I had thöught the celebratiön would have lacked yöur presence. Much töö löud, is it nöt?”

“I have no choice in the matter.”

The threads of life around him brushed his fingers, each little mortal going about the business of leaving everyday trivialities to celebrate something greater than its measly self, and it was leaving a rather foul taste in his mouth. The fact that his face wouldn't be commemorated throughout this day made him all the more bitter.

The other Verdants were observant enough to know this.

“There is always a chöice, demön. Yöu shöuld nöt be rude tö the wörld that which has created yöu; there is freedöm, here.”

He left his silence as answer, and after a moment Wigfrid huffed, shook her head, colorful immortal flames dancing with their own forceful make.

And then nearly knocked him over with a lighthearted slap on the shoulder, the sharp prickling of jest in the air, and even thought he could not see it the butcher goddess was smiling.

“Yöu föul up the air with yöur mööd, öld imp. This is a celebratiön, a festival, is it nöt? Gö, enjöy the end öf öur seasöns löved time för as löng as yöu can!”

Maxwell may have hissed at that, the sudden contact a bit much in all the withering colors and threads and strings about him, but Wigfrid did not take badly to his reaction.

At least there was this, he knew, huffing irritably and turning away, arms crossed. The Verdants were dangerous folk, himself included, but excluding him meant a more lighthearted, worthy godlike divinity. 

If anyone ever asked him, he'd think of them as forgiving all too easily, gullibly trustworthy, but he's found he could not fault them on it all too harshly.

After all, it was their forgiveness that ensured his survivability as Verdant. His domain may be important, but it was weaker, less sighted, backed up, than the others.

If any wished for his power, all they had to accomplish would be to get him out of the picture, and the other Verdants would not find this much of a challenge.

Snowfallen he'd be willing to tackle, but another of his calibre, possibly more?

There was only one answer he had to that, and it was forcefully flee for his life.

There was an interruption, slow, careful, a mortal sneaking close to their goddess and tugging on her leaved decorations with a hesitant, questioning air. Wigfrid, in all her greater goddess attentions, easily leaned over to allow the mortals words to reach her.

And then laughed, loud, boisterous, and her cackling laughter was scraping in his ears as Maxwell tried to come up with an excuse to leave.

“Öi, demön, allöw me to gift a present för a shört möment ör twö!”

And then she slapped a hand on the mortals shoulders, flames intertwining and threads mixing in divine intervention, shivery hot as Wigfrids colors plastered fast to the mortal shells quiveringly young life, and then the human let out a sharp gasp and backpedaled into their goddesses arms.

He lifted his head, to watch that sparking life, Wigfrids influence beating through it, but the human grabbed at their goddess and their words were stuttering fear, as he should expect.

Wigfrid frowned at that, he could see the somber color drain away the heated excitement, but her words were not unkind.

“It is nöt everyday a mörtal gets tö view their reaper withöut the leave öf death.”

Maxwell raised himself high, antlers heavy as he glowered in the general direction of the human, knowing his pale blank eyes and tall, thin stature, dark and rough and so much more bone compared to the butcher goddesses' giant guardian form was something that strikes fear into many a worshipper.

And then the light dimmed and the mortal collapsed into Wigfrids arms, having fainted good and proper.

“Are you done now? I have business elsewhere.”

“Yes yes, busy stealing the söuls öf the innöcent, gö ön yöur way dark öne.”

As he swept away, once more into the crowd of loud obnoxious life and flame and color, the butcher goddess threw her unconcious worshipper over her shoulder, slinging a few more final words to him in her parting.

“Find yöur peace söön, ör that scöwl will set tö yöur face like cröws tö carriön! What will be döne if yöur öwn faithful gröw pale at the sight of yöu? Be merry, för tönight at least!”

Maxwell grumbled to himself, carrying on in the crowd, and fought off the urge to shove and push those already darting out of his way, eyes sliding off his form with all too much ease and grace.

To say he was bitter, more than bitter, was an understatement.

***

The feast of noon, sun falling from its long graces of summer into the autumns early turned hours, was somehow even more obnoxious than all of the whole celebration so far.

To say Maxwell was having an unpleasant time of it all would not at all be far from the truth.

The shimmering threads of energy and light spread all about him, as life was wont to do, and all he could do was slip by unheeded, taking greying strings in hand and following them to their sources. The other Verdants were more polite about it, but the whispers still graced his ears, mortals huddling in their quiet halts of festivities to gaggle to themselves.

A reaper has never been what he'd ever dream himself to be, but Maxwell rolled his eyes whenever the spare bits of mutterings caught his ears. A magician was no death bringer, but he supposed a tyrant King might as well be one.

It's been long passed that now, but perhaps he wore the mantle all too well. Being called a grim reaper was not all bad, considering.

But time went on, this long celebrated day full of walking gods and communal monstrosities alongside their human enemies, and the gathering of souls to feed to the ever hungry Constant was a thankless job.

A never ending one as well, but Maxwell took his time nonetheless. This influx of blurred, hazy colors was something he rarely ever got while wandering on his own.

Possibly the only pro out of all this; the colorlessness of shadows bled the energy out of him some days.

A faded, shivery string caught his attention, the fabric straining on the edges, and Maxwell turned away from watching the sprites of youthful colors darting around, child laughter as they ran with hound pups and beefalo calves. Elsewhere, at some other date, they'd be fatal enemies perhaps, but now they played.

Maxwell may find it distasteful, but something in him softened at hearing the joy of such a meaningless thing.

The threads of life called him, hands finding the knots and lined flames, and he followed it through the crowds. Other threads were close as well, colors of life fading in preparation, and Maxwell grit his teeth and ducked his head as he moved along.

There was no end for death, especially here.

The color led him to the open air dining tables, fabric ceilings wavering on stilts all about, thronged with beast and humans alike, loud and celebration and obnoxiously messy. The feast was here, then, and Maxwell scowled at what was unseeable to him underfoot. 

If he stepped on one more dropped birchnut he was going to snap all these threads in a fit of rage, damn the consequences!

The greyed, dying vein of life led him near to the front of the table, and a louder, far brighter twisting flame hummed next to it, reassuring the humans surrounding it as death closed in.

“Well, if it isn't old Maxy. Thought I'd be luckier than that.”

The goddess leaned back, having been attempting to keep her faithful still breathing, alive, but it's flames were fading, simmering down now, fabric straining as it dipped low. Maxwell easily tangled the threads in his hands, strings taunt for a brief moment before he snipped them away, and the stuttered flame coiled in his hands, mortal and frail and old.

The shivered shadows of the Constant rose at the light, slithered close, drew claws through his leaves as they climbed, and Winona humphed in disappointment, the surrounding humans drawing quiet.

“I liked this one, you know.”

“Whether you liked it or not does not matter to me. I do what is willed of me; your personal preferences do not change that.”

“Damn, you're a right grumpy ass, aren't you?” The gardener goddess shook her head, looked down at the leftover shell of her worshipper and patted it on the back one last time. “To think, going out by choking on a fishbone.”

Maxwell sneered, shadows slithering about his arm before finally reaching to the life in his hand, eating it away and blinking wide, pale eyes at their provider before slipping away once more. His now empty hand curled into a fist, dropping to his side, and he straightened up, antlers just brushing the raised fabric ceiling.

“You could have taken care of that.” 

His words were not without a bite of frustration, irritability, but the goddess shrugged it off like it was nothing, standing full and rolling her shoulders, humans stumbling back to allow her the room.

“Ah, it's your domain and all, not really my forte. Thought to leave it to you if they did end up dying; I got other things to do than laze around here over something you can take care of instead.”

Maxwell hissed at that, eyes narrowing as he barely contained his already mounting stressed rage, but the gardner goddess hardly gave him a care at all, cracking her knuckles as her own colors flashed and flowed steady, unperturbed. 

To his eyes, she was grey, steel almost, rolling clouds sparked with bright blues and reds and greens at intervals, the rust red brown crawling from the underside, and these flames offered him almost nothing on insight.

Winona knew how to control herself from his sight all too well.

“You finished then? I don't want to wait around any longer than I have to cause there's a lot to do and I'm sort of needed everywhere right now.” Her voice was checked, steady, but a thin vein of cheek rose through before she could stop it. “I'm sure ya got lots on your own plate, Max, of course, so doing your job when I'm not around shouldn't be too hard.”

Before he could even stutter an answer, shoulders twitching with the amount of offense he could feel directed towards him, Winona bade a quick, professional goodbye to the mortals surrounding her and took her leave, dark smooth flames disappearing in the obnoxious waves of lesser colors and strings.

The humans, for their part, kept a respectable distance around where they believed him to be, scooting chairs and then, after a moment, taking the body away. 

Maxwell hissed, hands curled into fists at the slight, but the goddess was already gone. 

That woman knew no forgiveness, did she? Her whole family seemed to hold a grudge against him.

The thought brought a colder feel to it, and after a moment Maxwell untensed, bowed his head. He had no right to hold anger towards the Queen's blood family.

Even if she had just saddled him with more work, demeaning him in front of her worshippers in the process. As if more made up gossip was what he needed to be circulating.

With a heaved sigh, fluctuating colors and threads of the universe, the Verdant god turned away from the quelled merry making. Mortals mulling over recent death, and the shadows skittish presence gave him their blinks and hanging hungry maws, and here he was having to pick up after the others. 

“ _Carrion connoisseur_ ” was whispered nearby, nervous laughter as eyes darted about, and he passed by them with a scowl, unseen.

But that did not mean unknown. There was a startled yelp as the speaker's chair was tipped back with an idle flip of his hand, and then they were scrambling away, causing a fuss and attention as they fled. If Maxwell had a grin on his face afterwards, there was no one who could see it, that was for sure.

***

Shivering at the nerves of his blind vision, rather brief and very, very faintly, there were lights going out. Snipping the strings was not only known to him, of course, though his domain did preside over most causes and effects, but these dying lifelines were not his doing.

Instead, standing on dry earth, overlooking what he knew but could not see, Maxwell frowned as one of the No Eyed Deer let out a wheezed startle of a call.

Its flame struggled, weak sounds only growing weaker, and the withering roots and twisted tubors only squeezed tighter about it, colors dark and slow and as if draining, leeching the color away.

Well, he at least found where the golem deity has set themselves up at. Now he needn't worry on stumbling upon their settled domain.

Another shrill gaggle of sound, lifting his head at the fluttered struggles from a few turkeys, and then just like that the wheezing was cut off, colors went dark, and strings snapped. He could feel the shadows, coiling about his legs, twittering and silently brushing against him in mobs, not daring to tread ground they were not welcome upon.

The feasting god before them answered to none, and Maxwell frowned, sightless eyes staring to the nothingness that withered and creaked and curled together, knowing he was being watched.

"If I hadn't known any better I would have thought this to be a bloodbath, not a festival."

"I DO NOT CARE WHAT YOU THINK."

The golems cumbersome voice was graveled, thin, almost weedly even, a predatory image as they slithered and moved roots through the earth, a coiling organic mass shifting the dirt more like sand, and the void colors that betrayed their presence was a multi limbed, almost hideous thing. The earth crumbled and gave to them, and the Verdant reaper grimaced as he took a few steps back, listened to the sickly sounds of flesh and bone ripping, tearing, feeding those searching hungry roots with blood and meat. All around there were other lights, life skirting the circle, more careful now from the show of power, yet it was not just stragglers or witnesses such as himself that took the vigil.

The golems worshippers took light steps, bowed their heads, and their offerings were junk to most eyes but the mock effigies, of mechanical creations or old, rusted gearing were taken just the same, the coiling many arms of the deity taking and dragging the gifts back, digged deep. Thin finger roots dragged near him, prodding, almost curious besides the knowledge of the true malicious nature of the being, but backing off more was a show of weakness.

Maxwell stood firm, felt his shadows react to his own will, slithering and brushing haunting cold, stinging bites against the invading roots and there was a hissing intake of breath, the golems testing curling back as their very earthen form flaked and grew dry and withered, started to decay to dust.

For a moment there was silence, and Maxwell tilted his head at the barest of sounds, the hint of a breeze, antlers heavy on his head, and the void color surrounded him in vague threat, almost feeling the earthen deities gaping smile.

"WHY DID YOU COME HERE? NO ONE INVITED YOU."

"On the contrary, the invite was very specific." Maxwell knew they were circling him, knew WX78 all too well, in all their creaking limbs and coiling roots, blood drenched and cracking through bone, he knew very well what they could do if they so wished, the incident with the painter Verdant came easy to mind, but this was not a turf war of any sort, nor was he interested in even disputing. Let the creature believe what they will; Maxwell cares not for them, nor their followers. He raised his head, turned to the molded core of void fire that burned deep at him, blind eyes staring into the golems own blank gaze, and slowly raised his arms in a mock gesture, sarcastic grin sliding on his face. "Do you really think I'd wish to miss this?"

It was quiet for a moment, and he steeled himself at movement, only now realizing just how close the tuberous deity had drawn to him, raised high and looming in a mass of abominable rooted growth.

And then they laughed, a gurgling sounding thing laced with the cries of all those they had feasted upon, the suffering eaten up just as much as the bare flesh, and WX78 finally drew back, roots pulling away, leaving him to soft crumbly earth, ground eaten away as if by tunneling worms.

"LACKLUSTER, AND WEAK. THESE PITIFUL MORTALS CAN'T TAKE A HINT." 

Maxwells rather small display was not apparently the final factor; he let his arms drop, sighed through tightly clenched teeth and listened to the choked screams as someone else stumbled into the withering trap that was a malicious, hungry god. He could hear them struggling, clawing into the earth as roots coiled about their necks, dragged at their limbs and started to dig, eat away at the flame that was their bright, brief life. He swayed a moment, heard as the group that they had been walking with stumbled away, cried out in horror, and the golem deity raised themself high, coiling roots and mass as they glared down at their own worshippers and the signs, warnings strewn about for their presence, short, dark scolding right after.

To hear the pleased tone, however, softened the golems words, and Maxwell knew this had been no little accident.

The cult that followed WX78 was more known for acting in their deities favor; to follow unsuspecting was to be led to those hungry roots.

There was a reason not many Verdants interacted with this being; they might just be next on the menu.

Another gurgled scream, more struggling, and a few whipping vines snatched up passing birds, crushed fragile bones as the golems attention drew from his presence and onto other matters, but Maxwell found himself not taking a well deserved retreat.

He was here by accident, mostly, following the dying ropes, and then stayed as brief witness, but now he found he could not take his leave just yet.

The dirt was crumbled dark here, moist, soaking with mortal animal blood, a caving in pit that only grew as WX78 ate more and more, partook in this festival in the only way they ever would, and the fading flame of life before him heaved, struggled and suffocated as the vines and roots slowly killed it.

A mere mortal, human, and Maxwell found himself crouching down, brushing the blood soaked earth with his fingertips, lip curling and baring his teeth at the sensation, disgusted.

There were better, more elegant ways than this. He was no judge, and should not be, not when some full moons had him more at the hands of the feral shadows than others, but even this felt more than unnecessary.

Still, it was not for him to decide. WX78 was a Verdant such as himself, and as such has the right to do as they saw fit.

Even if it ended like this, every time. Eventually even their own worshippers would find themselves in this same spot, eaten by their own worshipped god. To Maxwell, their faith was pitiful.

Still, that was not as if he had no influence. The cursed golems own knack for slow suffering created a few loopholes, widened that fine line, and he saw no reason for not taking the advancement. 

It was not on him that he was so easily underestimated.

The mortal only paused a moment, only that last moment, and there was still life ahead, a bit of time to suffocation and the slow eaten ways of roots, but for that mere moment Maxwell raised his blind eyes and knew it saw him as it never should, a dark antlered silhouette with swirling shadow guardians at his feet, the brief touch of his cold talons to its head, the vaguest of comforts he was ever willing to give, the glowing white gaze it fell through and the emptiness of what lay after death.

And then its eyes rolled up, its life snipped away, stolen from those hungry roots, blood to feed them but no pulsing energy, and with that Maxwell stood back up and stepped away in one smooth motion, flame licking in his hands before the shadows surged up through his costume and fed upon what he had just thieved away.

It took a moment for the other Verdant to realize, preoccupied with the worshipping masses and the gluttony of their ego, but by the time they did Maxwell had already passed through from their site, into the protective qualities of the rest of the festival, the Queens parade now ending, the feasting coming to a close as the cold chill of night started to roll in, the last rays of the sun flitting and few. The golems faithful held torches, kept themselves and their god in the light and brief warmth of customary safety, lanterns and fire pits lighting for the last long night of the celebration, but even as the mortal flames parted before him to let him through, unseen and easily hiding back away in the cacophony of disgusting mortal shrillness, Maxwell found himself pulling a sharp fanged grin.

The Verdant god WX78s shrill screams of offended rage were truly heartening to hear, and all the more to understand. Making a blow and then not getting caught until it was already over, what a thrill.

He would just have to make sure he watched his step next spring; that certain deity was not known to let off grudges lightly.

***

With night having finally fallen, it was much quieter. The celebration has come to a polite close, with a few lasting respects given to each kingdom and their governing Verdant, and now every light of the mortal coil was retiring for the night.

Maxwell stood off at the sidelines, the barest of light from the torches reaching him, and the buzzing quiet shuffle of human and animal conversations was much easier on the ears now. A few more hours left and then they'd be packed up, hauling themselves away, and the lines, relations created for this last summer festival would be broken once more.

Of course, sometimes there were those few individuals who could not give it up, kept their ties, kept such friendships. Maxwell has seen many of those, and has watched them all die, one way or another. The other Verdants were kindly, sometimes even let it go on for longer than necessary, but eventually it went too far and bloodshed was always the answer to them in breaking it apart.

Maxwell found that such things usually died on their own, sometimes at the very faults of the participants. One memory served him well, of vargs and humans, the attempt at friendship, or perhaps animal servitude, but in the end a pack gets hungry or a human becomes terrified and such attempts can wipe out whole groups, family lines even. He's seen it enough times, and has gathered up the threads even, taken those colors and fed them to the shadows. 

For now, they will be giving their last goodbyes and well wishing, and in a few days time they'll all be back at each others throats in that mortal effort of surviving.

It did come off as pointless to him, at times, but no one listened to Maxwell whenever he brought that up. No one important enough, anyhow.

A sound caught his ear, straightening up from his minor pointless vigil to turn his head to the noise, a tune that slowly drew itself near. Flickering torch light did not affect his own blind sight, though the encompassing dark of Queens night did erase what he usually could see clear, but the crystal sharp lines of shadows graced him as he watched his visitor crawl forward.

Bells tangled in their ropes, frivolous little decorations, some hand made crafts and the pretty little baubles of worshipped offerings hung in clusters, but the almost toybox sounding jingle was announcement enough, especially coupled with the lacing bouquet of roses set just so in that spindly little vase. The Queen's handmaiden was gracing him with its presence.

"...Hello. Fancy seeing you here." Maxwell dipped his head, a thin grin spreading across his face, not quite a bow but not yet willing for that, watching as the stagehand skittered its way up to him, leaning this way and that on its spearing talon fingers, beautiful roses glowing bright in the firelight. The flowers caught his eye, softened him in remembrance, and knew that it was a privilege, yet a spiteful memory, to be allowing him the sight of such flowers. Most flora was bundled color, flowing energy, petty little squabbles and gossip for him to overhear, yet roses were the same as they have always been, and always will be for as long as she was Queen.

He was not given the right to hear their thoughts, or their voices. Perhaps for the best.

The stagehand shook itself, bells ringing and tune singing loud and pretty in answer, rising up and tilting its surface, vase rocking on top haphazardly, as if to give him a look. Unfortunate, that he could only see its flowers and clearing shadows, not much else.

The gifts of the mortals could sometimes be stunning to see, these sacrifices that would be delivered soon enough, but he was barred from that.

That did not mean he was withheld from the practice.

Taking a step closer, looming over the Queens left hand, Maxwell drew claws through his own covering of leaves and deftly plucked a few from himself, jaw clenching tight as he hid the wince. Cupping the dark green leaves in his hand, eyeing the pulse of faint energy from his very own manifestation, he slowly, carefully as to not startle it, slipped the pile down upon the tables crowded alter.

It would not be missed, the fact that he placed them close to the vase, pressed just so, and the little flares of life from the other Verdants offerings, respects, had his blind eyes roving for their flames, puffs of aura. He was almost tempted to run his hands over the stagehands surface, to get a feel on what they have given up to their Queen, but he reigned himself in as those shadow talon fingers clicked upon the ground, shifted.

Straightening up, absentmindedly raising a hand to press his clawed fingers upon the spot he had bare now, knowing the Queen would know exactly where, and would perhaps find a bitter spite in the knowledge of why, Maxwell respectfully took a step back. 

The stagehand rocked, swayed, and then suddenly went into an elegant bow, not a single gift shifting upon its surface, held in pace by forces he used to know so well. With his hand pressed to his chest, grimacing at feeling his own energy pulse under his palm, Maxwell answered in same, dipping his heavy antlered head low.

The stagehand shook, bells and sing song tune ringing, and off it scuttled away, zig zagging past torches, a few small tents, and then practically racing off into the darkness. Back, deep down, into the Queen's Throne room with her new gifts. 

Funny, how he had never had such offerings back when he had been King. That thought left him feeling a bit emptier, and perhaps there was a reason the mortal coil had such difficulty seeing him like they saw the other Verdants.

They knew of him, but his stories were long twisted, changed, corrupt now. The truth was only known to the divine, the Verdant and Snowfallen alike, and yet even that was slowly being forgotten.

Maxwell heaved a sigh, turned away from the dark and its patient Queen, started his way towards the more lighted grounds as to continue a patrol. The fine threads still could go grey, fade into death as night passed, and he could not forget his duties.

The pain of his chest, in his chest now, more physical in his sent gift message to the Queen, meant very little in the grand scheme of things. Maxwell drew in a breath of the cold turning air, thick with the festivals odours, just a hint of threatened frost.

He hoped she got a good laugh, at the very least.

***

The flurry of activity, awakened by a slow rising sun, had him hanging around the edges once more. Not many of the dead around here, not any longer for now.

Maxwell swayed, could feel the chill creeping in now, settling into his bones, and as the lights, somber dulled in comparison to their previous obnoxious excitement of yesterday, dimmed low in their packing he wondered how many of the Verdant have already left. The time for sleep was at hand, very soon now, and a few of the others were the early to bed, late to rise sorts.

He hasn't actually seen them, not after yesterday's festivities and the chaos of minor offenses and grating social interruption. Once upon a time, this sort of entertainment, recreational celebrations held more of his interest and even enthusiasm; nowadays, there was little point in the effort.

Mortals died out, and the warm divine were to sleep. The cold months would bring the other deities, those of the far darker seasons, and as every year before this one memories would fade and the forgotten would grow even more so. Maxwell was always a bit mildly surprised whenever he awoke and found his name, or at least the idea of reaper, to be remembered. 

The other Verdants were not much on spreading the word of each other, selfish as they were, but he was the same. Given the opportunity, he most certainly wouldn't waste time mentioning the others of his order.

As whispers flit between the mortals, spreading last words, last touches between dying friendships, relations, colorful lights easing away in the self isolation these mortal beings seemed to favor so much, Maxwell stood and watched, patient.

The stagehands visit last night was loud enough; he had been given permission, was dismissed, and leaving here was now in his right. The last of it did not require his presence.

The empty pit of where the tuberous golem had resided in was evidence; crumbled blood caked dirt that slowly showered back down, to fill up and cover upon the now bleached bones, sucked dry of any life. The footprints of WX78s faithful were printed in the mud, circling the sacred ground, but they have left much earlier than the rest of those still here.

Those hungry roots slumbered in warm, humid areas, coiled to preserve themself in the coming frost, and those followers would still feed that deity, even in their sleep.

Really, WX78 had it very good in comparison.

The painter god would fade into the light, into forests, dancing back to press close to the earth and rest, weedy faithful scattering and going just as quiet. Their hands still moved, still painted and sculpted offerings, but their god would sleep long and hard for the coming cold seasons.

The woodsman would tread deep, far, back to his home and whatever he has constructed there, and he'd sleep, long and dark and comfortable from the surplus he has lived upon before hibernations begun. Woodie slept early, but Maxwell knew he'd see him awake soon next spring, with the runoff snow and still freezing nights, singing the trees awake in his gravely slow voice.

Of the two goddesses, Wigfrid would lay to rest first. She buried herself deep in the faithful temples her kingdom has offered her, given and made with sweat and blood and life, and they will tend to her every sleeping need as the cold above only grew stronger. While Maxwell didn't dare risking awakening her, he's drifted about the structures, felt the softened earth deep under light crusts of colder snow; the warm springs kept her faithful alive, and he would shiver, be tempted, but would not tread down in those warm hollows of earth.

The geysers were always too loud for him anyhow; how she could sleep with that burst of noise was beyond him.

Winona held out much longer, and thus woke up much later in the spring. Her works rusted under the onslaught of heavy rain, and her faithful scrambled about to keep it all from coming apart, the inner deep caves she drew away for sleep catacombs that have taken too many lives, flames just out of Maxwell's reach. He did not want to risk entering such dark places, reminiscent of the goddesses sister, of the Queens presence, so he left the maze of underground tunnels to its traps and inner warmth. The shadows coiled about him disagreed, drooled for the cut threads he knew haunted down there, but he only waved their whining away. Entering that domain, especially with that goddess tucked away inside, was a risk he would never take.

Perhaps, in comparison to what the others had, Maxwells own den was a bit lackluster. Unfortunately, he did not have followers of any kind, flora or fauna, to aid in creating some temple or other such nonsense.

He supposed a dryad should be happy enough with their own tree. Not much for conversation though.

Knowing he was dismissed, that he could leave, did not quite tempt him with actually doing so. This was to be the last time this year he would be privy to all this life, these flashing bright colors, flames and auras and strings all twining together in the fabric of the universe, and Maxwell would not admit it but he will certainly miss the fleeting nature of activity and even, perhaps, the belonging that came with it.

Watching as those bundles of thread started off, drawing away with their packed belongings, last shouted goodbyes and weeping hugs, Maxwell heaved a sigh. He would need to leave eventually; being the last in this clearing was always disheartening.

For a moment, the racket of noise and mortal voice, quiet and respectfully saddened as it was, covered the footsteps that had quickened behind him.

"Tall friend, you here!"

Maxwell almost stumbled forward as something wrapped itself about him, thin vines and healthy leaves, twiggy and limbed but certainly stronger than it looked. It was a good thing he already knew the golem had long gone; this thing had a similar air to it, made him tense.

But the sprite hugged him tight, bounced on its stick thin legs, and he knew it was looking up at him, in the odd way of its void aura moved, the way flora whispered in its every movement. The living plant was no threat.

"Ahhh, tall friend frowny?"

Wormwood wiggled, still clung to him, twisting coils of roots and vines as the plant tilted his head, and the shifting had Maxwell squinting his eyes as the shine of life finally uncovered itself. His temptation in taking the gem was a perfectly normal reaction, especially with the faint traces of other that hung around, but he restrained himself from doing so. The sprite knew not of what he was, nor why, and for one reason or another Maxwell did not wish to injure him.

"I am just...tired." Maxwell loomed over the sprite, felt him wiggle and cling to him, leafy fingers and hands grazing against his own growth ridden manifestation, and the offset of weight was not enough to have him tilt and fall but it was almost there. "Shouldn't you be asleep by now?"

Wormwood shook his head vigorously, leaning this way and that, completely ignorant of the shadows that coiled and twisted blank gazes towards him, or perhaps not even caring.

"No no! Got work to do, now!" He hopped up and down, still clinging to Maxwell, the sprites excitement at seeing a friendly face was almost tangible. "But I see friend, I stop, I say! Hello!"

Funny, how easy it was to handle a plants presence over another Verdants. Maxwell was not up for much of this touchy feely sort of thing, especially from the others, but the sprite was not anywhere near as annoying in comparison.

He supposed it had to do with Wormwoods make; foreign, unknown, and not at all birthed from the plane he nor the other Verdants had ruling over. It had made him uneasy in the beginning, when he first chanced upon the living plant and was immediately overwhelmed by Wormwoods enthusiasm in finding someone so similar to himself, but it hadn't taken long to grow accustomed to him. The sprite spiked his interest at times, and he has asked as well, but Wormwoods limited vocabulary, as well as the short span of time he was awake, did not shed much light on the subject.

A mystery he felt the Queen had a hand in. He very much doubted it was for his benefit, and did not want to run the risk of calling her anger upon him for sticking his nose into things she was still manipulating. 

This sort of realization did not seem to grace Wormwood himself, however.

"Hello! Hello! Festival was fun! I had fun!" 

Wormwood was still clinging to him, was almost overly excited, thin, loud brackish voice fluctuating and jumping in that odd tune, and Maxwell tilted his head as he watched that slow turning void of energy curl, hum, alien in nature but still just familiar enough to read.

He heaved a sigh, shaking his head with only a quick glance around to see if he was being watched, and finally wrapped his arms around the sprite in answer.

"I suppose I should ask it you made any new friends?"

The sprite had quieted, energy thrum smoothing out at the reciprocation, and Wormwood had buried his head into the leafy covering that coated Maxwell, the fibers and slow growth that made up his form, the faintest of moss that clung to his limbs. With a shallow nod, Wormwood hummed in his hugging, and Maxwell already knew the answer.

For all that the Queen has done in creating this, there was still a few kinks that needed to be ironed out. Living plants were lively things, and this one wanted friends.

She seemed to like making life a tad hard; Maxwell, once upon a time, used to do the same.

In that loud, screechy voice of his, Wormwood wiggled and looked up at him, the alien aura of him completely at odds to the rest of the fabric of this place, only now just being added to as its weaver, as its Queen drew new inspiration.

"Many friends, so many! Wiggly friends and hairy friends and soft friends and light friends and dark friends! I love friends!" Wormwood grew quiet for a moment, tilting his head in consideration, and the vines and roots about Maxwell coiled and clung tight, of a foreign composition compared to his own manifestation. "But, all friends go now. Leave now, home."

Maxwell hesitated a moment, stifled another sigh, and made himself pat the sprite on the head. At least being this close meant he wouldn't miss; being blind did mean he couldn't actually see Wormwood, but he had a general idea.

"...no bye bye." 

Actually hearing the living plant sniffle was a bit much, however.

Careful, very careful as to not snip anything that should not be snipped, Maxwell untangled the living plants limbs and vines, easing the too much touching away from himself for the moment. For his part, Wormwood drew back, wiggling again as he shook off whatever sad ache that had been spreading in his aura, the void shrinking before swirling back to life once more.

"...Perhaps next year, then." Maxwell tilted his head, wondered if he was even meeting the sprites gaze, and it was not much of a comfort he could give but he has never been good at that sort of thing anyway.

It seemed as if he was in need of a distraction, and he quickly took what he had already been told as an opportunity.

"You mentioned having work to do-"

"Yes yes! Lots of work for me!" 

Wormwood wiggled, excited once more, hopping in place and nodding his head, and Maxwell internally sighed. Perhaps the sprite himself wished to be distracted as well.

"I to clean, help friends, plant birthdays! Make dirt happy again!" The living plant clapped his hands, an odd floppy sound with plant fibers and leafy texture, nettle voice rising and falling in fluctuating excitement. "From Queen, Queens orders just for me!"

Maxwell nodded slowly, gave a moment's pause at that as he straightened up, noting the faintness of lights and colors that were drifting away now. The evidence of the festival was fading now, scraped clean, and Wormwood here had been tasked with the job of erasing the rest of the leftovers.

After that he was sure the living plant would sleep, plant himself down somewhere next to whispering slow pines or scraggy hoarse bushes, sleep the fall and winter away. He'll need the energy for spring; the rains had Wormwood racing about more often than not, blossoms and blooms rising up at his heels.

Another minor thing they had in common, though Wormwoods trails lived on for far longer, and attracted far more bees.

That was good really; Maxwell was not the fondest of bees.

"The Queen spoke to you then?"

Wormwood nodded his head vigorously, whistling a sound in confirmation as he rocked back and forth on his heels, void glow of energy swirling and bright once again.

A saddening thought, that she had done rounds last night, perhaps even early morning and he had not even sensed her presence once. The stagehand was only a minion, a left hand doing as it was commanded, and he vaguely wondered on what she thought of the gifts those here have offered up to her, stacked up neat on that table. He absentmindedly drifted a hand over what he himself had offered, new growth, small leaves bunched like feathers already blooming back over the minor scar, and he grit his jaw as he pushed such thoughts out of his mind.

Her business was not his, not anymore. 

His thoughts were broken from the slow rolling drop with a sudden swish of movement, jerking him back as he blinked blankly down at the void swirl of energy staring right back, long vines hands twisted about his antlers and having dragged him down uncomfortably in something almost reminiscent of a bow.

"No more frowny, friend!" Wormwood rose his voice, a gurgling scrawl of nettles and hacked creaking, and Maxwell stared dumbfounded as the sprite wiggled his grip, made him rock side to side a moment as he tugged on large antlers. "Was a fun time, I had fun, you had fun, all fun!"

For a moment the indignation and heated anger at practically being manhandled rose up in him, almost reached his throat, but the living plants soothing swirl of light energy, the void of it dropping in alien wrinkles and paths, smoothed as Wormwood took inspiration and let go of his antlers, switching to instead just-

Pat Maxwell on the head.

"Like you say, maybe next time. If all frowny, other year better!"

Maxwell blinked, felt another sigh rise up in him to replace his offense, and carefully waved away those leafy hands, straightening back up as Wormwood gurgled something akin to a giggle, all wiggles and untapped energy once more.

"Yes, I suppose you are right." 

That seemed to be a response the sprite wanted, and Wormwood bounded around him, loud and scrawling voice pitching randomly.

"Okay, tall friend! Time for work now!"

Maxwell was a bit more prepared this time for the almost leap made at him, the living plant coiling and stretching in a hug, and he was glad no other Verdant was around to watch him return the hug in hesitant turn.

The others were not mean to the sprite, of course not, he was a living creation of the Queens domain, but Maxwell supposed they felt that otherworldliness, that alien tune in his voice, how he moved. Or, perhaps Wormwood just found the common ground with him more often than with the others; plants grew under their steps in much the same way, and their adornments, their manifestations had the growth of leaves and vines on their forms as well, but for one reason or another Wormwood seemed to seek his company out more often.

Maxwell would much rather not attribute it to the Queens interference; the amount of thought he didn't want to give in that direction was dampening, and it dragged too much on his own wavering fragments of sanity anyhow.

"I go, friend, so no more frowny, only bye byes!" Wormwood was the one to untangle and hop away, turning as his void energy hummed and spread, grew and thrived in the work he was to perform, and Maxwell straightened his shoulders, absentmindedly brushed off imagined dust from his plant clothed form.

"...Take care, Wormwood."

The words made the sprite stop midstep, spin around and hum almost pleasantly, aura glowing, and Maxwell felt for a moment that, if he had not been blind, he might have seen the living plant give a genuine toothy smile.

"Yes, tall friend! Bye bye, see you later!"

There was frantic waving, even though Wormwood was barely a few feet away, and Maxwell would not admit the tugging feeling of a smile on his face as he raised a hand and did the same, just to indulge the sprite a bit of course. As he backed away, leaving Wormwood and his excitement, almost happiness even at having visited with a Verdant of similar standing, Maxwell shook his head, turning his focus away.

The cold morning air was only to deepen as time passed, and the other Verdants have retired it seemed. He was the last still out, and he knew he wouldn't last long.

Time to go.

***

The first snowfall had been thick, fast, heavy. Catching up with the temperature, and then outpacing it, and Maxwell had frowned and grumbled to himself, cold fogged air from his mouth and frost already forming on his branching antlers, ice spreading about his leaves, stiffening his joints.

The travel back to his own residency had taken a bit long, interrupted by his distracted need to stay awake, to not drift off too soon. It was ironic, how he's been placed in charge of the seasons he disliked the most; Maxwell favored autumn and winter above spring and summer, yet that has been barred to him by forces he could not reach any longer.

Digging deep, listening to the silence of his tree, a lone thing in the woods, gnarled and twisted and having lost its leaves now from early fall, the Verdant shuffled himself under the dark earth and heavy snow, and he slept.

This, unfortunately, did not last long.

***

It was noise, usually, that woke him.

His trees whispers, maybe, or the slow sound of grasses awakening under thin melted frost, spring air and chilly dew as spring usually crept itself close, smothering around, the roll of thunder, crack of lightning even, sometimes later when he slept too long, the crash of rains and flooding of his tree roots.

This time, however, it was different.

It crackled, it sparked, and his own hibernated consciousness was a lethargic, slow rising thing, muffled under full swing chill, winter time clock still harshly underway. It was a wonder, that he had awoken at all.

Alas, he would have fallen under into deep slumber once more had his tree not suddenly roused itself, shook and trembled in the very earth.

There was other sound, out there. Among the crackling noise, among the drifting snaps, pops, curdling ever closer, were the wheezing last cries of dying trees.

That was what woke him up.

Maxwell uncurled himself, felt the earth squeeze around him, not yet willing to let go, let him be, he should _sleep, rest_ , but the dirt crumbled at his claws and gave way all the same, heeded his slurred, swaying fog thoughts, a will almost out of willpower, much too tired.

But when he breached the surface, the flooding of winter cold, harsh midnight winter, already striking deep to his limbs and shuddering his spine, already not where he was meant to be, meant to awaken in, an almost blizzard of sound and cold and snowflakes, thick snow under his claws and coating his antlers, Maxwell blinked open his exhausted eyes and found himself at a complete loss for a few moments.

His tree creaked threateningly, not voice, not sound, but a deep pit that ached in his own chest, in his gut that slithered through his own nerves, and the dryad Verdant stared up from where he had dug up to the surface, cold seeping inwards, ready to choke him, wither him into an ice frosted rot of vegetation, and the flames already sparked high on the forest continued on, not a care in the world.

There was a slow inhale, gasp, but it wasn't from him. Maxwell turned, squinted in this dark half light, his blindness diservicing him completely and utterly, only washing heat and cold and bright, much too bright emptiness. He could smell the smoke now, and the thought, _forest fire_ , of all things, slowly crept its lethargic way into his mind, still too slowed by interrupted hibernation sleep-

And then his tree _wailed_ as it caught fire.

For only that split second, still deadened by half sleep, by slowed functions, the lack of Verdant power he even had available, abandoned by both seasonal warmth and his now deep sleeping shadows, Maxwell stared as the silhouette of all that was him burned through his own blindness, right through the blazing pitch white that covered, hid everything else about him.

Well, shit, he thought.

And then the flames caught, sparked in dry wood, and the reaper Verdant god started to scream.


End file.
